


The Opposite of Need

by Akamaimom



Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Gen, Justice for Rachel, Team, Vulture Team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 20:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7330096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3: After the devastating events in St. Louis, Tom Chandler has some decisions to make. Broken, angry, and hurting, he focuses on the one thing that will bring him any kind of peace - Vengeance. Essentially a Vulture Team fic set between Seasons 2 and 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Numb

**The Opposite of Need**

**Numb**

_Around five months pass between the end of Season Two and the beginning of Season Three. Just because we don't see retribution from the Captain for Rachel's death doesn't mean it didn't happen._

_Here's my take on things. . ._

_A sequel of sorts to my previous Tom/Rachel story "The Opposite of Want"._

 

 

"There was nothing you could do." Mike's voice. The words sounded hollow and inert.

Tom clenched his jaw. His temples ached, his eyes were hot behind his closed lids. He was teetering on the edge of control, and sort of welcoming it - this - the long, slow slide into oblivion. But it was taking too long, and in the meantime, he'd just become a single raw, exposed nerve. Every pertinent point in his body throbbed. His side, still, where the shrapnel stubbornly prodded him from within. His arms, which were too, too empty. Even his hands hurt - curled tightly as they were into fists. If he opened his eyes, he'd still see blood on them.

_Her blood._

"Look, Boss. We couldn't have predicted this would happen." This from Tex.

But the words still meant nothing. Not when he'd lost her. Not when he'd lost her without ever having had her. Not when he could have prevented this if he'd been a little more bold. A little less of a gentleman. If he'd gotten over his - _what_ \- fears? Inhibitions? Grief? Self-recriminations? Guilt.

And now he just had more guilt to add to his already ample supply. Damn. Damn. _Damn it all to hell._

He half-leaned against the wall outside the room where he'd taken her body. Less than an hour earlier, he'd stood outside his hotel-room door, watching her walk her away from him, appreciating the gentle sway of her hips, the way her hair fell over her shoulders like a haphazard veil. With each step she took, he'd considered calling her name. Wanted to make her turn and come back. Thought about grasping her hand, opening his door, leading her inside, and throwing wisdom to the wind.

She would have accepted his invitation. Of that, he had no doubt. Her smile had told him so. Those profound eyes and expressive lips.

If only. . .

He'd heard something - but hadn't immediately identified it as a gunshot. He'd heard others running, but he'd found her first, turning the corner and seeing her there, lying in the hallway as her blood seeped steadily into the carpet beneath her. He'd located the wound and tried to stop the bleeding, pressing his hands against her body, bearing down hard. He'd spoken to her - nonsense words - trying to bring her back to consciousness, but she'd already been too far gone. There had been no fewer than four doctors in the hotel at the time amongst the responding crowd. They'd done their best, but in the end, the bullet had done too much damage, punching a hole in an artery. She'd hadn't stood a chance.

And so he'd gathered her up and carried her into the makeshift morgue. He'd arranged her on the bed, smoothing her hair away from her face, straightening the dress around her still form. He hadn't been able to stop himself from touching her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. He'd held her hand once – a lifetime ago - running from Russian soldiers as they'd escaped the Vyerni. Now, as she lay motionless on the bed, he'd fitted her palm into his own and tried to convince himself that she was actually gone. She'd still been warm.

Too much - too much death. Hers seemed _more_ , somehow. He couldn’t describe it any other way.

Shaking himself back to the present, Tom fought through the maelstrom in his head to find something to focus on. A mission, a duty, a task. Something to do so he wouldn't have to feel. "Did anybody see him?" Chandler tilted a look upwards, to where Tex stood a few feet away.

Nolan's beard twitched. "The shooter?"

"Did anybody see him?" Straightening, Tom scanned the rest of the hallway, where his people had gathered around him in a close semi-circle. Slattery, Burk, Green, Garnett, and Granderson were on his left. Tex had stationed himself front and center. His expression was inscrutable, but Tom knew better than to think he wasn't hurting or furious, or both. After all, Nolan had loved her, too. Jeter, Wolf and Miller completed the arc on the other side. Rios had backed himself into a corner, his arms folded tightly across his body, his expression one of absolute disbelief. Far, far down the hall, Kara Foster stood near the entry into that section of the hotel with Bertrise and Kathleen. They all still wore their service dress blues and party clothes. Incongruously celebratory - or appropriately subdued. Chandler couldn't decide which. Not that it made any kind of difference at all. "Do we have a description? Did anyone recognize him?"

Slattery scowled. "The shooter? We were all in the bar. I don't think that anybody saw anything."

Miller half-raised his hand. "I saw a guy running, Sir. We were in the bar still, and we heard a commotion and then this dude comes barreling out of the hallway. Little guy. Five-foot-seven - five-eight tops. He had dark hair and looked squirrelly."

"Squirrelly?" The Aussie accent made the word sound extra weird.

Miller tossed a quick look at Wolf. "Shifty. He was greasy-like. Dirty. Unkempt. You know?"

"What made you look at him?"

Frowning, Miller shrugged. "You mean, besides the fact that he was running? I thought that was odd."

"He was holding a gun." Garnett pursed her lips, shaking her head lightly before continuing. "That's when I knew that something was wrong. I'd heard a 'pop' noise, but I hadn't really thought about it. I figured it was a cork from a champagne bottle or something."

"But then people were running, and one of the staff was screaming." Granderson faltered. "My guard was down, Sir. It was a celebration. I wasn't expecting an attack."

Garnett nodded. "None of us were. But this guy comes running past the bar area, and I notice that he's carrying a gun. Miller was right. He was on the short side - dark hair. Round face. Beady eyes. Greasy. Dirty looking. I'd know him again if I saw him."

Tom closed his eyes again, thinking. "One of the Immunes, maybe? They weren't all that into personal hygiene, were they?"

"No, Sir." Wolf stepped a little closer, reaching out and thwacking Danny on the shoulder with the backs of his fingers. "There was one - when we airdropped the cure from the helo. He was little like that, wasn't he, Green? Remember in Memphis when they let loose all the sick people?"

"I remember shooting a bunch of them." Green's brows lifted. "Honestly, I didn't think we'd let many of them get away. I thought we'd neutralized most of them."

"When we captured McDowell?" Burk frowned, considering. "There were a bunch of Immunes there that day. They were dressed in digis trying to look like us. We took a bunch of them out, but it's sure as hell possible that some of them got away. I remember one being young-looking. He turned tail and ran as soon as the shooting started. I thought he was just a kid, so I didn't go hunting him. But maybe he wasn't just a kid."

"Maybe he was just short." Wolf made a little noise in his throat - something like a growl. "At the time, I reckoned he was a teenager. Like you said, Burk. Just a stupid kid."

"Well, we obviously assumed wrong, now, didn't we?" Mike reached up and tugged at the tie that he still wore. "Those Immune sons of bitches are really chapping my hide."

"It's likely that some of them are still committed to their cause, Sir." Green rocked back on his heels, his arms folded across his chest. "We took out their leadership, but there are probably still a bunch of Immunes running around thinking they're better than the rest of us. Probably still believing Ramsey's bull, wanting to take back power."

"How the hell did he get in here?" Burk ran a hand over his hair, his movements tight with frustration. "Where did he come from?"

"It doesn't matter where he came from." Slattery glared towards the door that hid the doctor's body. "What matters is where he's going and how we're going to find him."

"No." The Captain shook his head. His team stood still, watching him. He trusted these people - loved them, if truth be known. He knew them to their cores, knew their abilities and their frailties. Knew that each of them were wondering what came next - knowing that their Captain wouldn't just let this stand. "That's not what matters."

"Then what does, Sir?" This from Granderson. Tough as nails, but in shock and pain. Her voice trembled just a bit.

Chandler looked at his crew, this family they'd formed. They looked to him for answers, even when he had none. Despite himself he looked down, at where Rachel Scott's blood had only just dried on his shirt and skin, at where it still colored his hands. There had been times over the past several months when he hadn't had any answers to give - no good ones, anyway. And truly, he only had one answer now.

Tex caught the Captain's attention. The man's normally genial expression had grown hard. He'd slipped back into Merc mode, closer to the man he'd been at Gitmo than the one who'd just been dancing with his daughter. "Commodore? What are you getting at?"

"It doesn't matter how he got in here or where he went after. We'll figure that out." Chandler said. The numbness inside had started to morph into something else. Something dark. He looked at his crew again, at each one in turn before allowing his eyes to flicker back to the door. Towards the room where she lay motionless. She - Rachel Scott - the woman who had saved the world.

Rachel Scott, who Tom hadn't been able to save. Exhaling roughly, the Captain pulled himself up to his full height. "What matters most is how he's going to die."

 


	2. Aftermath

**The Opposite of Need**

**Aftermath**

 

 

"She deserved a hero's burial."

Tom threw a look sideways towards Michener. The President looked somber, but Chandler couldn't decide if POTUS' demeanor reflected his upset at the loss of Rachel Scott herself, or of Dr. Scott the scientist. Tom's jaw clenched for a moment before he responded. "Yes. She did." 

"I know that you and she were very close." 

Chandler nodded, his fingers tightening on the hat he still held. _Close_. Is that what they called it? This need he'd felt - this want that had seared his soul. He'd battled through his grief at losing Darien and come through on the other side to find Rachel there, filling a hole he'd figured would stay empty. But now - she was just gone. The chasm felt deeper than ever. _Close_. "She was an amazing woman." 

The President hesitated, and Tom could feel his companion's eyes studying him. If anything else, Michener was a shrewd man, and a perceptive one - a fact evidenced even more so by his next words. 

"I kind of got the impression that there was more to it than a mutual professional regard." 

"No. There wasn't." He'd answered too quickly. Too strongly, probably, but that couldn't be helped. It had only been 36 hours, and he still wasn't quite in control. He was still processing the fact that they were standing over her grave. 

The day was cloudless and bright - exactly wrong for a funeral. Around them, trees swayed in the too-cool breeze, their leaves rustling as the air tickled against them. Chandler still couldn't quite believe that such a place existed in the middle of a city as large as St. Louis. The hauntingly beautiful garden of tombs and headstones was interspersed with old-growth trees and what appeared to be Greek temples. It was like an outdoor museum, only the real pieces of art were all dead. Obviously, the cemetery had suffered in the plague. The grass hadn't been cut in months and the bushes had taken over the majority of the footpaths. Here and there, mounds of dirt had started to sprout grass and weeds. There hadn't been anyone left to finish burying the dead. 

It was almost better that the wilderness seemed to seek to reclaim this place. Rachel would prefer wildness to freshly pruned shrubbery, anyway. 

Someone at the hotel had taken care of finding a casket and the President himself had presided at her service. They'd buried her quickly - there hadn't been the time or the resources to do much more than prepare her body and find a suitable place for her. There had been talk of cremation, but Tom himself had balked at that. She deserved a memorial in this world--something people could visit once the Apocalypse was behind them. Some way to commemorate what she'd done for the human race. At the very least, she merited a grave. That was more than had been given to so many, many others. Darien included. If Chandler were to be honest with himself, that was part of his vehemence on the subject. He hadn't been able to do right by his wife - hadn't been able to lay her to rest - but he could give Rachel this much. 

A local official had found a grave already half-way dug near a large oak tree at the cemetery just up the 70 from the Gateway Arch. But while Bellefontaine was beautiful and historic and serene, the fact that they were burying Rachel Scott anywhere at all cankered inside him. Anger and grief washed freshly over him, and he steeled himself against the pain. 

His jaw hurt, and Tom realized he'd been clenching his teeth. Forcing himself to relax, he took a low, deep breath - deliberately exhaling when what he wanted to do was rail against the universe. When what he wanted to do was grab his civvies and a few dozen magazines, strap his weapon to his vest and head out on a hunt. He stilled, then worked up a blank expression."She and I went through a lot together. We were friends. Close friends." 

Michener's eyes narrowed. He wasn't convinced. He raised his shoulder in a resigned half-shrug, turning away from the graveside they'd been facing. "Ah. Well. There's one thing to grasp hold of that should give us some comfort." 

"What would that be, Sir?" 

The President had already begun walking back towards the phalanx of SUVs that had brought them to Bellefontaine. "We still have her research." 

"Yes." Tom paused, lifting his hand and placing his hat on his head with deliberate precision. Pivoting, he fell into step beside the Commander in Chief. "At least we have that." 

They walked for around ten yards before Michener spoke again. "So, Tom." 

"Yes, Sir?" 

"You haven't given me a final answer to the offer I made you."

CNO. Chief of Naval Operations. He honestly hadn't really had time to think about it. "To be honest, Sir, I think that there might be someone else who is more qualified." 

"Where? Who?" Michener paused, stopping out of earshot of the guards standing near the line of vehicles. "We haven't found anyone else who has the bearing, the credentials, or the experience to take on that job. We've got Kearns out of Fort Huachuca to take leadership over the Army. He was able to establish a safe zone there and save hundreds of soldiers and civilians. I made contact with a contingent of Air Force pilots who say that there's an enclave of leadership still operating in Colorado. We're still working on the Marines. For all intents and purposes, though, you're the only one that can do this. You're the most well-known face in the world. People trust you. You're the one we need out there playing ball with our allies and our enemies." 

"I'm still not certain that I'm your man, Sir." Tom looked down at the ground, where his white shoes stood out in stark contrast to the green of the grass. "The Nathan James was only my second command opportunity. I'm fairly sure that doesn't equate to being elevated to the Chief of all Naval Operations." 

"You're who I want." Stubborn. The President raised a brow. "The Nathan James will be in dry dock for a few months. The helo is being overhauled and upgraded. Your crew is being moved around, positions redefined, their abilities utilized in different ways. Why don't you use this time to sit in the chair for a while, so to speak. Try out the title and position and see how it fits." 

Tom sighed. Glancing over towards the line of SUVs, he skimmed past the President's ride and requisite protection detail. A few cars behind Michener's was his assigned vehicle. Slightly older model, a little more well-used, Tom had chosen the Excursion himself from the cars that had been presented to him. Leaning against the passenger door were Wolf and Tex, their heads bent together in deep conversation. Burk and Green stood shoulder to shoulder near the back wheel well, the white of their uniforms reflecting brightly off the dark paint of the beast behind them. Nearly all the crew had come to the funeral service, but only these four had accompanied Tom to the graveside. They'd wanted to provide security - at least, that's what they'd maintained. Tom knew it was for more than that - they'd wanted to lend him some moral support. 

That, and they wanted to know what his next move was. Men of action. Not a single one of those guys would rest until Rachel's killer was found. Though none of them had spoken a word since the conversation they'd had in the hallway, Tom knew as sure as he was still breathing that they were all ready - both physically and mentally - for the job ahead. 

The President wanted an answer. Tom pressed his lips together into a tight line before giving him one. "Mr. President, I'll sit in that chair. But first, I'd like to ask a favor." 

"Ask away." 

"I haven't seen my children since leaving Norfolk. There's an enclave of safe houses in St. Louis City Center. I'd like to bring my family and the Tophets here, so that I can keep an eye on them." 

"Of course. That's always been the plan, Tom." 

"But I'd like to go get them." Chandler's gaze flickered again towards his men, his team. "I'll take a small contingent of my men and we'll go back to Norfolk over roads, rather than flying. Moving my family back myself will give me time to reconnect with my children. It'll be a week. Maybe two." 

Michener paused, his expression deliberately bland. "Road trip, huh?" 

"Truth be told, I could use a break. A road trip might be just what I need." 

The President's mouth lifted slightly at one corner. "You know, I do have investigators trying to find the man who shot her." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Dr. Scott. We've already got a team of detectives out there looking for him. Following leads. I recognize that a man like that can't be let go. He needs to be brought to justice." 

"Of course he does." 

"This isn't the Wild West, Tom. I'm not about to let you saddle up your posse in search of a hanging tree."

Chandler kept his voice carefully mild. "I wouldn't dream of it, Sir." 

For a long, long time, POTUS merely stood there, studying Tom's face. After what seemed like forever, he let out a long, ragged breath. "So, road trip?" 

"To Norfolk. To get my kids and bring them back home." 

"A week." 

"Maybe two." 

Michener sighed again. "I'll give you that time. I'll give you your team. I'll expect you back and ready to work as soon as possible." 

"Yes, Sir." 

Michener gave him a long, piercing look, then abruptly threw a truncated two-fingered salute in Chandler's direction before striding towards his Suburban. Just as one of his guards opened his door, he turned, pointing at the Captain. "Remember what I said, Tom. No posses. No hanging trees. Let's let justice be served in the right way." 

Chandler nodded, his lips thin. "Yes, Sir." 

As the SUV roared to life, Tom started towards his own ride, where four of the people he trusted most waited. 

"What was the President saying about a posse?" Danny scratched absently at his jaw. Green had shaved for the occasion, but this late in the day, the blond stubble had started to itch. 

"He has a team of investigators looking for the shooter." 

"He's thinking they're going to arrest the little son of a bitch? Bring him to trial?" Tex scowled. "That's a load of crap." 

"Michener's hoping to reestablish law and order." 

"It'll take longer than a few weeks." Burk's brows rose. "In the meantime, we can't let this guy escape. Who knows who'll be next?" 

"There are some people who just need to be taken out of the equation." This from Wolf, his face stern. "To my way of thinking, this bloke's one of them." 

"I've asked Michener if I can take a team with me to Norfolk. I'd like to get Ashley and Sam and my father and move them back here. And Kelly Tophet and Ava, if they'd like to. If I'm going to be stationed here, I'd like my kids near." 

Another of the Suburbans rumbled past them, kicking up dust from the side of the paved road. Tom waited until it was gone before continuing. 

"I know that all of you have things you need to be doing. People you'd like to look for. Family. Friends. But I'd like you along with me on this mission." 

"Mission?" 

"The President said no posses. No hanging trees." 

"Right." Tex's look glazed over with what could only be described as anticipation. "So?" 

For the first time in two days, Tom felt himself smile. "He didn't say anything about Vulture Team or the business end of an AK-47."


	3. Taking Lead

**The Opposite of Need**

**Taking Lead**

_This chapter is pretty talky-talky, but I promise, we’ll see some action, too. I did research the tech stuff that’s mentioned here, but my degree is in English, so I probably didn’t get it thoroughly. Anyhow, please be kind to me. I can diagram the heck out of a sentence. A complex motherboard? Not so much._

 

 

 

"They got a picture."

Chandler lifted his head from the maps spread out over the table in his hotel room. Granderson stood just to the side of the bed, practically beaming.

"Who got a picture?"

"The reporters. The ones who were covering the Inauguration." She took a few steps towards him, holding out a Manila envelope with one hand, the other clutching a clipboard. "The security system has been down since the hotel shut down - some kind of off-site digital storage snafu. But there were a half-dozen reporters in the hotel and at the ball. One of them got a picture."

Reaching out, Tom took the envelope. Flicking the flap upwards with his thumb, he reached in and slid the photograph upwards. Grainy - it had obviously been enlarged. The figure was in motion, but clearly visible, his face turned directly towards the photographer.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting - horns, maybe, or a forked tail. Something closer to the face of evil incarnate. The first time Tom had meet Sean Ramsey in the close confines of the Florida hotel, he'd been struck by the malevolence lurking in the cult leader's expression and being. There had been a simmering underlayer of darkness to the man that had made Tom's skin crawl.

Just as well Ramsey was decomposing somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. It had saved Tom the trouble of killing him.

But this guy. . .

Tom's gaze refocused on the photograph. Round face, dark eyes and hair. It wasn't possible to discern the color of the windbreaker he wore, but the gun in his hand was instantly apparent. It seemed that he was smiling as he ran, although Tom admitted that could have been his own imagination working overtime. 

"We got a description of a car, too, Sir." Granderson spoke haltingly, as if unsure whether she should continue. 

"Let me guess. 1985 Lincoln Town Car." 

"Sir?" The young woman frowned. "I don't understand." 

"A reference from before your time, Lieutenant." Chandler looked up at her, attempting a smile. "Back when I was a kid, the bad guys in old TV shows always drove these huge old beasts of cars, and the good guys drove American muscle like Chargers or Mustangs." 

She pursed her lips as she studied him. "Okay. Well, this time, not so much." 

"Go on." 

"He was driving a Ferrari, Sir." 

"A Ferrari?" 

"And it's orange. One reporter said that he would have recognized it anywhere, since he did an article about it as part of his job. He worked at _Road and Track_ before the outbreak." Granderson turned the clipboard she'd been holding towards the Captain. "Here's a picture of the exact model. It's a 2013 F12 Berlinetta." 

Tom reached out and took the clipboard from the Lieutenant, glaring down at the photograph. The car sat low and curvy, and had a slightly space-age look to it. Two doors, sweet grill, front spoiler - just enough chrome. "She a beauty." 

"That kind of car will stick out like a sore thumb, Sir. I've talked with Green and Burk, and they agree with me that he'll probably ditch it as soon as he gets far enough away from the city." 

That sounded possible. Tom lifted a brow, considering. "With a car like that, he could make some serious distance away from the city in a short amount of time. It's more likely to me that he'll hang onto it, just to give him an advantage over anyone trying to chase him. He could outrun anything with that kind of power." 

"Which is why we think that time is of the essence."

"Did anyone say which way he went?" 

Granderson shook her head. "No. Just that he drove quickly out of the parking lot and headed towards the freeway." 

The Captain's eyes narrowed, his mouth hard. "He could be a couple of states away by now." 

"Except that this kind of car requires very particular fuel. If you don't use premium, there's a possibility of the engine having problems." 

"And even though many of the fuel lines are back up and running - " 

"Even on a limited basis - " 

Chandler looked back down at the photograph clipped to the board he held. "Even so, they aren't sending premium unleaded fuel at all." 

"The only working refineries in the country have been concentrating on distributing regular unleaded and diesel to those stations still up and running." Granderson paused as the door opened up behind them and Wolf and Tex entered. "Which is why I assume you chose the Excursion as your official car." 

Tom paused as Tex approached him, glancing towards where Wolf lagged, closing the door with a quiet 'click'. Looking back over at Alisha, he went on. "In a pinch, a diesel will burn pretty much anything flammable. If we can filter it well enough, we're good with scrounging for alternative fuels whenever we can't find a working station." 

Tex stopped next to Alisha, glancing meaningfully at the clipboard Chandler held. "We've got a lead on our boy, but we're going to have to move quick if we're going to catch him." 

Brows lifting, Tom nodded for him to continue. 

"After Dr. Scott died, Michener had McDowell brought in." Nolan lifted a hand and removed his omnipresent cap. "There are still a bunch of cops around St. Louis, and once the cure was distributed, the judge-lady and Michener started gathering them up again. Some of them were patrolling the hotel the night of the Inaugural shin-dig. As soon Rachel's - um - as soon as she was found, the cops went for the Immune."

Granderson shifted her attention from Tex to the Captain. "I thought McDowell had been pardoned. I thought he'd been let go."

"The deal hasn't been made yet." Chandler set the clipboard and photographs down on the table. "He's been held in custody just in case the Immunes tried something. Michener wasn't satisfied with McDowell's act at contrition." 

Tex threaded his fingers through the casual mess that was his hair. "He's been thoroughly questioned, Boss." 

"And?" 

"We got an ID." Tilting his head at the picture still sticking out of the envelope, Tex tapped it with his knuckle. "The S-O-B's name is Curtis." 

"Curtis what? First name or last name?" 

"Now, that, we don't know." Nolan picked up the photograph and studied it for a moment. "But McDowell seemed to think that he was going to try to make his way back to Florida where there are still strongholds of Immunes." 

"Florida?" The Captain cursed under his breath, crossing his arms across his chest. "There are about a million ways for him to get there. How the hell are we supposed to find him?" 

"The fuel, Sir. Maybe?" Granderson tapped the picture of the Ferrari. "Those cars are temperamental, Sir. He's going to have trouble finding gas that will run well. If we can figure out where there are still gas stations that have the highest qualities of gas, we can track him." 

Wolf made a noise deep in his throat as he neared the group. "That's assuming a lot. There's no possible way we can find him using that little to start with." 

"Wolf's right." Tex shook his head. "It's a big country, Captain. And there are still lots of resources available, even after all that's happened." 

Tom's brows lowered as he stared down at the table, at the photographs and the maps there. He wasn't familiar with the area, nor did he know anyone who was. As American cities went, St. Louis wasn't huge - but three large interstates led out of the city in three separate directions, with countless smaller roads and byways crisscrossing the area. Curtis could be holed up nearby in one of the thousands of abandoned buildings in the city, or he could have already made it to Mexico. 

Chandler rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "So, McDowell thinks that he'd head to Florida?" 

Tex nodded. "Apparently, the Immunes down there are being a little obstinate. A bunch of the ones that we routed out of New Orleans headed back to the hotel compound in Florida. According to McDowell, there are several hundred Immunes there now. Maybe Curtis is hoping to go down there and rally the troops. Could be he's aiming to jump start the whole movement." 

Tom looked up at a light knock on the door, somewhat surprised when Val slipped through the opening and then closed the door behind her. She passed a quick smile to Wolf as she stopped beside him at the table's edge, then took a deep breath and addressed the Captain. 

"The President asked me to spearhead the effort to reestablish reliable communications. I need to get on the Nathan James to get my gear, but apparently nobody told the MPs at the pier." 

"They won't let you board?"

"They were pretty adamant about it, too." 

Smiling, Tex shrugged. "They're probably just being overly careful." 

Val tossed her hair over her shoulder, a rueful smile playing on her lips. "Well, whatever they're being, I still need to get on the ship." 

Chandler nodded, throwing a look at the Aussie operator. "Wolf, can you get Green to escort Val onto the Nathan James?" 

Taylor glanced over at the woman next to him, then looked back at Tom. "I can take her, Sir. I need to grab a few supplies, anyway." 

"Supplies?" Val's brows drew together. "Are you going somewhere?" 

Sighing, the Captain ran a hand through his normally-starchy hair. "Wolf's accompanying me to Norfolk. We're picking up my kids and my father. It'll be a little road trip. Some down time for us before the rebuilding process begins." 

But Val didn't believe him. She grinned, raising a brow at him. "What part of my resume gives you the idea that I'm stupid?" 

Wolf leaned into her, nudging her with his elbow. "Val. This really isn't - " 

"Come on, Captain. If you're hunting the dillweed who killed Dr. Scott, I'm all in." 

For a moment, the hotel room fell silent, the only sound coming from the air conditioner as it thrummed in one corner. After a long, tense moment, Tom rolled his eyes heavenward and then gestured towards the table. "We have a name and vehicle description. We're just trying to formulate a plan." 

"What kind of car?" 

"It's fast." Granderson pointed at the clip board, and the glossy photo it held. "It's a Ferrari." 

Val stepped closer to the table, turning the photograph until it faced her. "Late model, right?" 

"It's only a few years old."

"How are you searching for it?" 

"The old fashioned way." Tex scratched at the roughage under his chin. "There's really no other option. The best we can do is canvass the area and try to run down leads." 

"Why don't you just track the GPS?" 

Chandler's eyes flew wide. "Can you do that?" 

Val's brows rose in a cocky challenge. "Captain, please." 

Frowning, Tex took another step closer. "I didn't think that the satellites would still be usefully whizzing around in space about now." 

Her shoulders rose in a half-hearted shrug. "The satellites used for global positioning are actually a different breed than the ones used for TV or communications. They were originally used by the US military, and they're set into higher and better orbits than more commercial satellites. If I had to make a wild guess, I'd say that they're still up there plugging away. All I'd need to find is the individual code for that particular car and figure out how to hack into the network." 

"How do we get the code?" 

"Dealerships keep those records, especially on higher-end cars. If it's a newer model, it might still have some sort of roadside assistance service attached to it." 

Tom considered, his jaw tight. Looking down, he scanned the seemingly incomprehensible maze of streets and highways on the maps in front of him before glancing back up at Val. "Do you really think you can do it?" 

"You doubt me?" 

"Let's just say that I'm cautious." 

The corner of Val's lips twitched. "Find me the dealership and I'll hack the hell out of it." 

Wolf tossed her a side-long glance. "What about Michener's orders?" 

"I can multitask. Once you get me the code, I'll find the trace and guide you via ham radio as long as I can while I get things set up for POTUS. Easy peasy." She skewered the Captain with a look that was more challenge than anything else. "So? Is that a plan?"

Tom scanned the room, his gaze settling briefly on each of the people were looking right back at him, their expressions filled with a kind of potent expectation.

"We've gotta get this scumbag, Boss." Tex, of course, the mercenary's hands braced deceptively loosely at his waist. 

"I'm aware of that." Chandler took another look at the photos on the table. The car, and the grainier image of the shooter seemed to taunt him. "Val, you go back to the Nathan James. Wolf, go with her and make sure she gets what she needs. And whatever else _we_ might need." 

Taylor smiled - a slow, menacing thing- before nodding. "Yes, Sir." 

"Granderson, could you please go and ask the security people if there's any more information that we could use?" At her nod, Tom turned his attention back to Nolan. "Tex, you and I will go find whatever other gear we need." 

"I saw an electronics shop back near the freeway. Looked nearly untouched. We could probably find ourselves a few good working radios, antennas, and power sources." 

Alisha smiled. "Shouldn't take too long to wire hams into a few vehicles. And be sure to find a portable set for Val."

"Green and Burk found a gun shop down towards the docks. We could load up on some civilian gear and ammo." Chandler scratched at a random point beneath his chin. "I'm guessing that there can't be more than two or three high-end auto dealerships in a town this size. Grab a phone book and start looking." 

"And then?" Tex's jaw tightened as he flipped his cap back open and situated it atop his unruly hair.

Quiet. The insistent hum of the air conditioning unit filled Tom's ears as he stared down at the photographs and maps before him. Only, it wasn't the papers he was seeing - it was pale skin, tumbled-down curls, and black lace turning crimson as her blood seeped out of her. He could still feel her in his arms at times like this - times when he was purposefully trying to forget the sensation of holding her as she'd slipped away. Anger tickled at his spine, at his gut, while the sickening pulse of helplessness and pain throbbed within his soul. 

When Darien had died, he'd sought closure, and perhaps absolution. He'd needed to grieve, but hadn't really had time or opportunity in the ensuing chaos. Even so, he'd fought his way through that agony to emerge on the other side to find purpose. And to find her. 

_"Find me." He'd told her. "Find me."_

_"Find me." When he never should have let her go in the first place. Never should have let her walk down that hall, her hair swaying against the curve of her back with each step. Damn it. Damn him._

And damn the dead-eyed Immune in the photograph.

Tex was the only one ballsy enough to prod. His voice was barely louder than the blower on the unit at the other side of the hotel room. "Boss? What then?" 

The Captain tilted his head first one way, and then the next before narrowing a meaningful glare at his friend. "And then we go car shopping."

 

 

 


End file.
